


The Bow

by QuokkaMocha



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), Minor Violence, Nightmares, One Shot, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25337680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuokkaMocha/pseuds/QuokkaMocha
Summary: Thranduil recalls a rare moment spent with his father, as he seeks a way to connect with his own son.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	The Bow

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an edited version of one which appeared on Open Scrolls Archive, under my other pen name, SpaceWeavil. The plot is the same, only the writing has been cleaned up a bit, since hopefully I've learned a bit in the ten plus years since I wrote this.

**The Bow**

Thranduil watched each of his father’s movements with a keenness of a bird of prey. His heart had quickened as they found their spot in the forest and King Oropher began his work. Though his life stretched ahead of him, too long to fully comprehend, Thranduil sensed that this moment, these seconds here and now, were finite, and so he studied his father in as much detail as he could, desperate to commit it all to memory. His father stood a pace ahead of him, his back slightly turned so that Thranduil could only make out Oropher’s profile, brushed by the dappled golden light that fell through the canopy of leaves. A frown of deep concentration creased the king’s otherwise flawless brow. In his hands was a longbow, cut from one of the yews at the heart of the forest. Hours of careful, patient carving with a silver knife Oropher had had forged for that very purpose had given the bow an elegant curve, and it was not finished yet. There, in the clearing, Thranduil had watched the shape appear from the rough wood, as the pile of shavings at Oropher’s feet collected, and could not help but feel his pride swell inside of him like a deep breath. Not only was his father the king, the most important Elf in the Greenwood, but he was a craftsman. An artist. And yet, conversely, Thranduil noted how his father had come dressed in a plain tunic and cape, no crown of leaves in his hair, which was drawn severely back from his face to let him work without annoyance. Here, beyond the confines of his palace, Oropher was just a father. 

Thranduil held completely still, wary even to let his cloak slide off his knees in case the shift of the fabric made too great a noise and broke the moment. Oropher worked in silence, tilting his head now and then to view the bow’s angles and check his work. The only sound, besides the whispering of the wind in the trees and the occasional groan of an ancient trunk as it swayed was the sharp rasping of the blade. Once or twice, Thranduil had thought of questions, had wanted to ask why his father cut a particular way or what it was he had paused to contemplate for so long, but he couldn’t bring himself to break that silence. It was like a play, he mused, and allowed himself a faint smile, secure in the knowledge that his father was not looking his way and would not see. Oropher was a silent performer and Thranduil would have to wait until the act was complete until he offered any applause or comment. It had taken months of persuasion before Oropher had agreed to these lessons, and even then, the king had been reluctant. Thranduil suspected his father had no real idea what to do with a son, beyond the duties tradition laid out for princes and kings.

Once he had his own bow, however, Thranduil felt sure he would learn the techniques of war and of the hunt quickly. He’d already followed the guards out on patrol whenever he could and interrogated them mercilessly for any wisdom that could prove useful. Perhaps, if he could show himself to be as great a warrior as Oropher had been, then his father might find him easier to deal with. Perhaps, at last, they would have something in common. 

With a sudden intake of breath, Oropher straightened, then held the bow at arm’s length, inspecting his work. Thranduil sat up straighter, controlling the urge to smile or worse, to speak, until his father made it clear that such a response was appropriate. A prince should only show emotion where it is necessary, Oropher had told him repeatedly, and even then, it should be given only in small doses. The people will read a million words into one stray movement of the lips or the eyes, and even out in the middle of the woods, one could never be certain that there was no one watching. One look from you can inspire courage or defeat, hope or despair. At all times, therefore, Oropher maintained, a prince must be as steadfast as the trees. Not quite as inflexible as stone, he’d added with a slight smile, but almost.

Oropher gathered up his tools and pack without speaking. There was no need to speak, Thranduil knew, as his father had already spoken at length on the theory behind the creation of a bow, before they left the palace. Now they would return and the bow would be stained with a mixture of soot and oil, not just to rid the wood of its bone-like whiteness, but to prevent the wood becoming brittle once the sting was taut. Then, when that coating dried, the bow would be strengthened further around the tips, where the string would be tied. Then, once the string was in place, they would begin work upon the arrows. The whole affair would take time, Thranduil knew. A few moments greedily snatched from his father’s life. He made sure never to reveal how much the prospect excited him.

Oropher turned, nodded to his son to indicate it was time to go, then headed off through the ferns and bracken, heading into the colonnade of silver trees. Thranduil did not follow right away. Instead, he watched his father for a while, his pale hair gleaming as he passed through the shafts of sunlight that broke through the canopy. 

**

Standing alone, Thranduil imagined he could still hear the faint footsteps, soft as a breeze through the ferns’ soft leaves. The clearing, however, was now knotted with ivy and weeds, the woods brooding in a dank green gleam. No more dappled sunlight. No sunlight of any kind, only a hazy mist and odious, damp air.

Despite the grimness of the forest now, King Thranduil gazed for a long while at the spot where, centuries before, he had caught that glimpse of a crownless Oropher. He recalled the details so acutely that he could picture his father’s every movements on that day. He had been right to study him so closely. Perhaps, on some subconscious level, he had always known that one day, memories would be all he had left. 

Where before there had been birdsong and the susurration of the leaves, now the woods groaned like old men, weary of life. Spatters of footsteps beat against the sodden ground somewhere in the darkness. Thranduil kept his hand upon the hilt of his sword just in case whatever made those steps came too close. His heart ached to see the forest, not only because of its transformation, but because the memory of Oropher, pleasant though it was, reminded him just how little he could recall about his father. One or two days remained in his mind, preserved with more detail than the most accurate painting, yet if he dwelled upon the image of his father for too long, his mind inevitably wandered to the battlefield. He saw Oropher’s sword catch the sunlight, as he raised it to fend off the Orc attack headed his way, not seeing the other creature that approached him from the reader. At the sound of the orc’s bestial cry, Oropher had turned and the creature’s scimitar struck deep into his chest.

Thranduil would have happily died with him at that moment. Only duty prevented him from flinging himself blindly into the fray. He remembered Oropher’s words too clearly. Courage or defeat, hope or despair. He saw his people around him, saw them look to him and in their eyes, he saw that they had made him king already and needed his guidance. 

By some miracle he had survived. Why, he did not know. If the One had some purpose set aside for him, Thranduil was not aware of it. He ruled a grim and dismal forest, holding desperately to the memory of its former beauty while evil things continued to breed within its bounds. He performed no great deeds and remained within his halls whenever he could. Any who knew him thought him cold, more so since he returned from Mordor. None knew the reason. 

Only one small shaft of light broke through the darkness of his life now. 

Thranduil reached to his shoulder and pulled an arrow from his quiver. There was nothing to shoot in the clearing. Nothing within sight at any rate. Yet still he nocked the arrow delicately and drew back the bowstring, listening as the yew wood gave a faint moan. Only he would hear the sound. If only Oropher had lived to see it complete, he might have learned its language too. Thranduil had taken up the work again the moment he returned from Mordor, glad of an excuse to slip away from the duties of kingship which he could not help but think came far too soon. Though he never returned to the forest to work. Too many eyes. Instead, he kept to his rooms where he could weep in peace. The yew wood should be supple enough, he thought grimly. It soaked up enough tears in those days.

Thranduil closed his eyes and steeled himself, the grief that had plagued those nights threatening to crack his mask. For years, his dreams had seethed with images of orcs and other abominations of Mordor, and of Oropher’s battered corpse, and every now and then he felt the evil thoughts lurking at the edge of his mind. He wished, sometimes, that he had a confidant, someone he could confess his fears to, but he had no idea how one would speak of such things with another person. He would not know how to begin. 

He loosed the arrow and it disappeared with a hiss into the dark. Thranduil did not see where it struck, but he heard the dull thud as it hit home. Behind him, the ferns rustled just enough to betray the presence of another figure. Thranduil inhaled slowly and deeply until he felt his mind was his own again, then he turned, lowered the bow, and watched as the other Elf approached him.

‘This will do,’ he said, adopting his customary crisp tone, no words wasted. ‘Though this was once a better spot than it is today. Let me see what you found.’

His son held out a length of yew, keeping it at arm’s length as though he feared it might bite him. Legolas blinked up at his father with unconcealed excitement.

‘Very well,’ Thranduil said. He drew his knife from his belt, ready to start carving,

‘How long will it take?’ Legolas asked.

‘As long as it takes. A rushed weapon is unreliable. To trust your life to this bow, you must know that every stage of its crafting was good.’

Legolas nodded, taking it all in. 

‘Will you teach me how to use it too?’ he asked.

Thranduil paused for a moment then looked at him over his shoulder, and concealed his smile.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘So long as you promise to pay attention, and to remember.’


End file.
